


Low Tide

by ButtKickingForGoodness



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Martin takes a statement, Peter Lukas is annoying, and Simon Fairchild plays mind games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-20 21:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20682035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButtKickingForGoodness/pseuds/ButtKickingForGoodness
Summary: Martin is just finishing checking Peter’s email for the day when he hears the footsteps.





	Low Tide

Martin is just finishing checking Peter’s email for the day when he hears the footsteps. They’re oddly quiet – not deliberately sneaking, but nonetheless unobtrusive. He closes the browser window and stands up, silently pushing his chair back. The footsteps stop, hovering just to the side of the doorway, out of sight.

Martin waits and listens. A tape recorder clicks on where it has manifested on top of his desk, but the telltale static of an entity is missing. His hand drifts towards the collection of boat knives that Peter has been continually replacing in his desk. Another moment of silence passes as he carefully wraps his hand around a hilt, and he’s about to make his move when a young woman peers through the door.

“Excuse me,” he says politely, backpedaling internally. “This area is closed to the public; you’re not allowed to be here.”

Her eyes snap up to meet his, flicking briefly to the blade tucked behind his forearm before returning to his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m just looking for Martin Blackwood?” she asks. “I spoke with the woman at the front desk, and she sent me up here.”

She’s American, Martin notes with slight unease. Young, practically dressed. A bulge in the waistband of her trousers that could be a weapon but could just as easily be a phone. The woman edges slightly further through the doorway, and Martin realizes how exhausted she looks. There’s a familiar hollowness to her blue eyes that sets Martin on edge, and her hands tremble slightly where they rest by her sides.

“Why are you looking for Martin?” he asks, somewhat gruffly.

She takes a half step back and wrings her hands, the shaking growing more obvious. “You guys take stories, right?” she asks nervously. “About… unnatural things. Look, if I’m in the wrong place I can go; it’s just that the nameplate on the door said Martin Blackwood and I really need to speak with him.” She nods her head in the vague direction of where she’d paused before entering.

Martin frowns. “You said that Rosie sent you?”

She blushes. “I’m sorry, I’m really bad with names. I think so? I showed up here, and I went to the front desk to ask for directions because I need to tell you what happened and I honestly have no idea what I’m doing but she took one look at me and sent me up here to talk to you. You are Martin Blackwood, right?”

A sigh escapes Martin, and he gestures for her to enter. If Rosie sent her then she’s probably another one of Jon’s.

“Please, take a seat,” he offers, settling back down behind his desk.

She sits down nervously, crossing one leg over the other and leaning forward against the arm of the wooden armchair, hands clasped together.

“Right,” Martin says, pulling an accession form out from his desk drawer. “What’s this about?”

“The disappearance of my brother.” Her eyes flick down before meeting Martin’s again, a little too steadily.

“Why are you here?” Martin rephrases his question.

“I – I need to give a statement,” she replies.

Martin narrows his eyes. “Why are you _here_? Why not go to the Usher Foundation?”

She hunches in on herself. “D.C. isn’t a good place for me to be right now. And besides, it happened outside the country.” Her hands are still now, but only because she’s wedged them between her knee and the side of the chair.

Martin leans forward, and she shrinks back. “Look,” Martin says sternly, hiding his discomfort at leveraging his size. “I know you’re not telling me the whole truth. If you’re going to continue trying to hide things from me, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

She freezes, then blurts, “Mr. Fairchild sent me.”

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” Martin asks incredulously, leaning back in his chair.

“Simon Fairchild? He contacted the university, had them send me here? It’s ostensibly a learning trip, but he made it _very_ clear that I needed to speak directly with you.”

“Simon sent you.”

She nods.

“Did he say why?”

The woman bites her lip anxiously. “He said that Peter sends his regards.”

Martin sighs. “Of course he does. Alright then.” He sends an unnecessary glance towards the tape recorder to check that it’s still on before proceeding. “Statement of…”

“Rebecca Santos.”

“Right. Statement of Rebecca Santos, regarding the disappearance of her brother. Statement begins.”

She takes a deep breath, and begins.

“My brother Benjamin and I were always close. That’s not to say we didn’t fight; we fought often, sometimes viciously. But there was always that trust between us. He knew that I would do anything for him, and I knew that he would do the same for me.

“I was thirteen when it happened. The whole family had packed into the car and made the drive up north for vacation, to Wolfville in Nova Scotia. We’d rented a quiet cabin on the coast, and it all started out rather nice.

“Then things started to go… weird. The weather was forecast to be sunny and pleasant all week, but on the second day the clouds rolled in from the east. I don’t know how much you know about the weather patterns in Nova Scotia, but the prevailing wind is westerly, so clouds like this were unusual. I didn’t think anything of it until the next morning when the fog came in. There was no sun to burn the fog away, and it just sat there, stagnant.

“My parents were unfamiliar with the local roads, and the fog made driving risky, so we stayed home that day. We’d meant to spend the week out and about, so we hadn’t brought much to occupy ourselves with. All that we had was an old set of tiddlywinks that the owner of the cabin had left. It’s a charming game, but not nearly complex enough to occupy two children for more than a morning, let alone an entire day. We began to bicker, and it soon reached the point when our parents needed us out of the house. There was a path down to the beach just a little bit up the road, and my parents decided that the next morning they would take their chances on the road rather than keep everyone cooped up in the house.

“It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. There was a narrow cliff path to get down to the beach, and from there the sand stretched out as far as the eye could see. It was low tide, of course, and the fog was just thick enough that we couldn’t see where the water started, so we began walking. My mother stayed behind on the beach, keeping and eye on our things, and my father, Benjamin, and I headed out towards where the water should have been.

“I don’t remember how far we’d gotten. Everything was perfectly still, no wind, no waves. We kept the cliff at our backs and pushed forward. It was quiet – we were used to beaches with breakers, where roar of the surf was sometimes the only ting you could hear. But this was different. The fog seemed to swallow all of the sound. None of us tried to talk to one another, but even if we had I’m almost certain we wouldn’t have heard.

“The water crept up on us slowly. First the pebbled beach gave way to red sand and even our footsteps stopped making sound. The sand was dry in the beginning, but it grew glassy the further we went on, until we could almost see our faces in it. I was looking ahead of us so I didn’t notice at first, but I tripped, and when I looked down, I saw that the water was ankle deep. I reached out for my dad, to tell him we’d found it, that we could go back and get out of the horrid fog, but he wasn’t there, and neither was Benjamin.

“I shouted for them, but the fog was so thick I could barely hear my own voice. I looked back to where the cliff should have been, but there was nothing there. The glassy water stretched out as far as I could see, a seamless reflection of the fog that arced up into the heavens and seemed to swallow me whole. And then I fell.

“I don’t mean to say that I lost my balance. It was more like the ground under me suddenly ceased to exist, and I was tumbling, drifting through an endless plane of fog that threatened to smother me. There was no rush of wind, no sudden acceleration, just the instinctual knowledge that I was falling and would never land.

“I don’t know how long I was there. My father says it was only a minute or two, but I’m certain it was longer. The first thing I became aware of was his arms, wrapping tight around me and pulling me out of the fog into the warmth of a hug. I don’t remember much else, not until I woke up in the car on the way home. Benjamin was gone. My parents didn’t even mention him when we crossed the border.

“I don’t know what happened to him. I’ve never asked, and Mom and Dad never talked about it. I don’t even think they filed a police report. I tried to google it years later, but all I found were articles about the ships that had run aground that day. An oil tanker had split open in the middle of the bay. It wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t even supposed to be anywhere near the coast, and it got caught when the tide went out. The resulting oil slick spread throughout the bay, and when it reached another wreck, well. The flames spread unnaturally fast, and the area was devastated. I saw some photos, and it was more than enough. I stopped looking after that.”

The woman slumps in the chair, eyes falling shut.

“Statement ends,” Martin says softly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to unload on you like that,” she says with great effort, voice suddenly hoarse. “Mr. Fairchild told me to just tell you the facts.”

Martin grimaces. “Stories have a mind of their own, in this place.” He makes a few final notes on the accession form and looks up. “Have you experienced any other strange occurrences since the incident? Any nightmares?”

She shakes her head. “No more than what you’d expect.”

Martin breathes a small sigh of relief. It would appear that Jon’s influence has not yet spread to the US. He gathers the forms and the tape recorder and sets them to the side.

“Well, Ms. Santos, I think that’s everything we need from you,” he says, not unkindly.

“Right. Yes, I should be going. I’m expected elsewhere.” She stands slowly, wobbling a bit, and makes her way towards the door.

“Mr. Blackwood,” she says, pausing in the doorway, “Be careful. Whatever took my brother is still out there, and you seem to be tangled up in the center of all this. This is strange to say, but you remind me of him, you know.” She smiles a sad smile, turns, and disappears.

Startled, Martin rushes out into the corridor. It’s empty, save for a small curl of fog peeking out around the far corner, and he can just catch the sound of footsteps, far more distant than they could possibly be.

Sighing, he turns back to his desk. The tape recorder clicks off. It seems that he has yet another reason to talk to Peter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
